


How Not to Clean Your Handgun

by labellementeuse



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Gun Kink, Handcuffs, M/M, Moderately Gentle Dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6552274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellementeuse/pseuds/labellementeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had a great time writing this and picked up a new kink or so, so thanks for that :) Thanks heaps to C for the beta.</p>
    </blockquote>





	How Not to Clean Your Handgun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mareridt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mareridt/gifts).



> I had a great time writing this and picked up a new kink or so, so thanks for that :) Thanks heaps to C for the beta.

Stiles trots up the steps to the Argent place, then thinks better of the front door and ducks around the back. It's pretty quiet; he's not sure Chris is around. Beacon Hills has had hardly any gruesome supernatural murders—that Stiles knows of, anyway—for like a month, and for all Stiles knows Chris is off stalking something three states away. Didn't stop Scott from sending Stiles round to check up on him, though. 

Stiles pretended like he didn't know why Scott didn't want to come himself, but he didn't argue too hard in the end. He's not sure Scott's been back to the Argent place since before Allison died. 

Back to the present problem, though: the back door. Stiles knocks a couple of times, nothing. He could walk away, tell Scott he's done his duty, but then he thinks about Beacon Hills' typical murder rate, and its recent one, and also about how much he'd like to know exactly what Chris Argent is doing lately, and fumbles in his pocket for the old credit card he's taken to using to jimmy locks. 

The Argent back door is a little tougher than most—big surprise—but Stiles gets through eventually. He grins when the lock clicks, does a little dance and makes a fake trumpet noise of self-congratulation, and then swings the door open and freezes. 

Chris is standing in the doorway of the dark kitchen, pointing a gun at Stiles. 

"Hello, Stiles," he says. 

Stiles sticks his hands up in the air, a reflex he would really be happier if he didn't have. 

"Mr Argent! Hi!" he says. "This, uh, isn't what it looks like. Scott sent me round—I knocked! You heard me knock, right?" Chris doesn't say anything, so Stiles steamrollers right on. "I thought if you weren't home I'd just, uh, come in and … uh." Stiles subsides into awkwardness.

"Go through my stuff?" Chris' expression doesn't change, and nor does the position of the gun. 

"Well, not in so many—okay, yeah," Stiles says. "But, look, in my defense, I was also concerned you might be dead."

Chris' lip twitches. "Thoughtful of you," he says. 

"You know, dark house, haven't heard from you in a while, wouldn't be the first time," Stiles says. "Uh, Mr Argent, do you think you could maybe point the gun somewhere else? My arms are getting kind of tired."

Chris kind of blinks. "Oh, yeah," he says, and does so. "It's not loaded anyway," he says, and nods toward the kitchen table. Newspaper is spread over it, and on top of that is a frankly enormous array of guns—and by this point in his life Stiles has seen quite a few—along with cleaning paraphernalia. Gun oil, cloths, q-tips, bullet casings, just sitting out on the kitchen table. 

"I hope you have a license for those," Stiles says, half-laughing. "My dad's a cop, you know." 

"For all fifty-two states," Chris says. He heads back over to the table, indicating the chair opposite. "Sit," he says, and it's not a suggestion. Stiles does. 

Chris puts the gun he was pointing at Stiles down, then breaks it apart. He was telling the truth, it wasn't loaded, and Stiles watches him start cleaning it. 

Stiles must have seen his dad do this a hundred times, but watching Chris do it is … different. He watches Chris poke a brush into the barrel and work it back and forth a few times. His hands are confident, big, a little greasy. 

Stiles, suddenly and intensely, wants them in his mouth, one of those crazy sex thoughts that hit him every now and then, with increasing frequency lately, like the more Stiles is exposed to violence and near-certain death the more his body wants him to fuck someone, anyone. He's had them about Scott, watching him chug a bottle of water after lacrosse practice; about Lydia, sucking on her pen during math; once, frighteningly, about Derek Hale, when he'd been sitting on the hood of his car with his face turned up to the sun and his eyes closed, looking frankly approachable, and Stiles had been suddenly consumed with the desire to go and kneel down by the car and suck Derek's dick. 

This is like that, then. A passing crazy whim. Stiles swallows. 

"Stiles?" Chris Argent's big hands are in front of his face, and Stiles blinks. Chris clicks his fingers, and Stiles jumps.

"Sorry," he says, blinking rapidly. "Just got distracted. Thinking about something else."

"Right," says Chris. "So why are you here, anyway?"

"Scott sent me, like I said," Stiles says, absently. Half his attention is still on Chris' hands, wiping lube onto some gun part Stiles is going to pretend he doesn't know how to use, because that's better for his peace of mind. "He worries, you know." He starts jiggling his knee, then reaches out to toy with a gun casing.

Chris reaches out and smacks his hand away. "Don't make me cuff you to that chair."

"Sure wouldn't want that," Stiles says, but it doesn't come out how he means it to. He was going for sincere and slightly terrified, but it came out … well, Stiles has never been seductive in his life, but if he had been, that's how he would have been trying to sound.

Chris' eyebrows are up, and he's looking at Stiles. Stiles can feel himself going pink, but _why not_ , he thinks to himself, suddenly. Why the fuck not. Nearly certain death every goddamn minute—time to listen to his body for a change. He meets Chris' eyes, puts his best "Make me" expression on, and reaches for the gun nearest him. 

Chris' eyebrows stay up for a second, long enough for him to search Stiles' face, and then they drop and he's up and moving, one hand going to his back pocket, the other one grabbing Stiles' arm away from the table and twisting it, pretty gently but not entirely so, behind Stiles' back. Stiles struggles, but in a pro forma kind of way; he doesn't want to hurt himself, and even if this isn't going where he thinks it's going, he's pretty sure Chris won't hurt him. Unless he's possessed or something. 

He's probably not possessed, Stiles reasons. Possessed people don't usually bother with gun cleaning. 

Chris—who apparently keeps handcuffs in his pockets; Stiles is so surprised, not—gets a cuff around Stiles' wrist, and then he gets the other cuff through the bars of the chair and around Stiles' other wrist and right, OK, Stiles is handcuffed to a chair now. He tests it a little. They're not overly tight and he's not uncomfortable, but he's not getting away, either. His breath is coming faster. 

Chris is still behind him. Stiles thinks about Chris standing there, just watching Stiles struggle against the handcuffs, pulling them against the chair, and realises that he's hard. 

Not that he can do anything about it now. Irony. Ha ha. 

"Nice," says Chris, sounding pretty much unaffected, but he doesn't move for a minute, and Stiles shivers when Chris runs a hand through his hair, then grips, pulling Stiles' head back a little so Stiles is forced to look up at him. Stiles meets his eyes, then licks his lips, just a quick flick of the tongue, but Chris' hand tightens in his hair, and Stiles feels triumphant, tries not to show it. 

"Wait," Chris tells him, letting go of Stiles and resuming his seat opposite. He picks up the gun and grabs a cloth, running it over the casing, then starts putting it together. He looks up at Stiles after a bit, cocks an eyebrow at him. "I didn't think anything short of a gag would shut you up," he says. 

"Not even that does it," Stiles says, automatically. "I try to talk through it," and Chris laughs. "You have nice hands," Stiles says, without thinking, and then cringes. "Also, nice guns."

"Thanks," Chris says. He's smiling, but he's not looking at Stiles, so Stiles only about half dies of embarrassment. "Didn't know you liked … guns."

"Me either," says Stiles, willing his blush to subside. "The more you know."

"Hm." Chris finishes putting the gun back together, spins it by the trigger once. "There's really only one reason for a gun like this one," he says, contemplatively, and then he's pointing it at Stiles, and Stiles' breath is coming fast, adrenaline racing even though he's just watched Chris clean it and put it together and he knows for sure it's empty. 

He's also hard and getting harder. Something, Stiles thinks, is seriously wrong with his dick. 

Chris gets up again, comes back over to Stiles. He's still keeping the gun trained on Stiles; Stiles is transfixed, staring at it, until it's pressed right against his forehead. Stiles closes his eyes. He's panting now, but over it he can hear Chris breathing hard, too, and he feels the gun trail past his temple, down his cheek to his mouth. It brushes his lips, and Stiles, daringly, licks the tip. 

Gun oil doesn't taste great, but Chris makes a choked noise and presses the gun forward. "Open up," he says, and maybe it's that his voice finally sounds a little affected, like he's turned on by Stiles being handcuffed to a chair with a gun in his face, but Stiles does. The gun slides in, past his teeth, cool, and Stiles gasps a little. "Suck," says Chris, and Stiles does that, too, moaning as Chris starts moving the gun back and forward—starts _fucking his face with the gun barrel_. Chris gets a hand behind Stiles' head, holding it in place so Stiles can't pull away, forcing the gun deeper and deeper. It brushes the back of Stiles' throat and he chokes, gags a little, feels Chris pull back a little and nearly yanks his hair out of Chris' hand moving forward trying to get the gun back in his mouth. "Jesus," Chris says above him, "you're so into it," and Stiles makes some kind of noise around the gun.

Stiles opens his eyes again. His mouth is stretched and wet around the gun; he feels obscene, and as he meets Chris' eyes he realises he must look it, too. Chris' face is red, his eyes fixed on Stiles, and when he pulls the gun far back enough Stiles twists his hair in Chris' hand so he can say, slightly muffled around the tip of the gun, "Do it," and open his mouth. 

Chris' eyes narrow. His hand fists in Stiles' hair, and he gets a foot up on the chair between Stiles' legs. It presses up against Stiles' dick and his hips pump up against it, and then again and again as Chris starts fucking Stiles' face with the gun in earnest. 

Stiles yanks against the handcuffs, not because he's trying to get away but because he can't help it. He drools and chokes when the gun hits his throat. He rubs helplessly against Chris' foot as Chris jerks the gun into and out of his mouth, further in each time until he's gagging again, making noises and moaning when he's not gagging.

He keeps meeting Chris' eyes right up until his hips stutter against Chris' foot and he feels himself coming, hips pumping, back jerking, heat and light blazing up his spine. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," Chris says. He eases the gun back, and Stiles makes a disappointed moan, licking at the tip as Chris pulls it away. Without the gun in his face Stiles can see Chris' dick pressing hard against his jeans. He rubs a thumb over Stiles' mouth, his bruised lips, and Stiles licks at that too. Chris swears, and then he says, "Stay right there," and pulls away entirely.

Alone for a second, Stiles takes stock. His pants are sticky and his mouth is sore. This was kind of an insane first sexual experience with another human being but, he decides, pretty fun.

Then Chris is back, putting something on the table and crouching in front of Stiles. His face is still flushed. His jeans look frankly painful. Stiles curls a little grin at that, and Chris sees it and grins back at him, briefly. "Wanna do something about that?" he says, and Stiles feels heat coil in his belly and says, "Yup."

Satisfaction and a little relief flicks across Chris' face, and then he's up and behind Stiles, fumbling with the cuffs. He gets Stiles up and keeps moving him forward until he's bent over the table and Chris is cuffing his hands to either side. Apparently one of the things he collected was an extra set of handcuffs.

Stiles gets a glimpse of what's on the table before he's up close and personal with the wood. Chris has shoved the guns to one side. Stiles sees more handcuffs, lube—actual lube, not gun oil—and a shiny silver foil square that makes his gut twist. 

Chris comes back around behind him, puts a hand on his hip, and Stiles shivers. 

"How are you doing there, Stiles?" He sounds suddenly uncertain, like not being able to see Stiles' face has him pausing.

Stiles turns his face to the side so it's visible, licks his lips. With his head to the side, he can see the handgun he'd had in his mouth. It's streaky with spit. Stiles can feel his dick trying to get hard again. Time for some bravado. "Are you gonna talk, or are you gonna fuck me?" 

Chris' hand tightens on Stiles' hip. "You've got a dirty mouth," he says, and Stiles laughs. 

"You know it," he says. 

Chris spanks him once, not very hard, and then he's kicking Stiles' legs apart, getting a hand between them. Stiles is suddenly aware how very open he is, even in his jeans, as one hand slides from his ass down between his legs, caressing at his balls. 

Chris' hands aren't hard, but they're firm, implacable; Stiles can't get away from them as they fondle his ass, stroke his rapidly hardening dick, grope between his legs and thighs. 

"Still eager," Chris says. 

"You know me," Stiles said. "Always into new experiences," and he breaks off as Chris squeezes his balls—not hard. Just gently; just enough Stiles knows how much control Chris has right now.

"Backtalk," Chris says, but he sounds amused rather than pissed, so Stiles doesn't care. Anyway, Chris knows him. Stiles being a talker can't be that much of a surprise.

Chris' hands are back to Stiles' hips, and he grips them for a second before urging them up. "On your toes," he says, and Stiles goes obediently, so Chris can fumble underneath Stiles and pull his jeans and boxers away and down til they're caught around his ankles. Chris tugs them away from there, too, and then spreads Stiles' legs, firmly. 

Stiles shudders. He's very aware of how exposed he is, top half clothed, handcuffed to a table, bottom half bare and spread. Chris' hands are back, repeating their wandering journey over Stiles' ass and dick and balls, cupping them. Stiles' dick is hard again and it's still messed up from coming in his pants, but Chris doesn't seem to care, working it until Stiles' hips thrust into the table. Chris draws his hand away, then, rubs a dry thumb over Stiles' asshole. 

It sends a shiver up Stiles' spine. "Please," he says, and he's not really sure if he means please yes or please no or please hang on a minute. 

Chris leans forward, presses a kiss to Stiles' neck. "Okay?" he says, his breath brushing Stiles' ear. 

Stiles takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah," and Chris pats him, pulls away. Stiles hears the click of a bottle being uncapped, and then Chris' hand is back at his asshole. 

"Just one for now," Chris says. His other hand is rubbing Stiles' back, soothing. He's hoarse, and Stiles remembers that Chris has been hard for a while now, tries to let that thought distract him as Chris presses one long finger into Stiles. It's not that Stiles has never done this to himself, but this isn't how he imagined someone else doing it to him for the first time. 

It's not bad, though. Actually, after Stiles gets used to it, it's good. Chris gets a second finger in there, slick with lube, stretching Stiles slowly. It's weird, so weird feeling someone else's fingers actually there, in his body, but it also makes Stiles feel crazy. He starts pushing back, struggling to get onto his toes for leverage, yanking again at the cuffs, and Chris' hand moves from the small of his back to his hip, pressing Stiles there, keeping him still. Stiles is only sort of a fan of that until Chris crooks his fingers some way and rubs across Stiles' prostate.

That gets Stiles shouting. 

"Ssh," Chris says, but Stiles can hear him grinning.

"When has shushing me ever worked?" Stiles pants, and Chris punishes him by scissoring his fingers open and adding a third, sending Stiles moaning into the table. 

"That's working," Chris notes, and Stiles generally would not tolerate that level of satisfaction, but he's too busy whimpering into dirty newspaper to do anything about it. Still, though—

"Are you going to fuck me anytime today?" Chris' fingers still for a second, and Stiles makes an annoyed noise until he gets back to it. "Come on, man."

Chris is silent for a second, and then he says, "Yeah, OK."

"Don't let me twist your arm or anything," Stiles says, but Chris is fumbling around on the table and then Stiles hears him ripping open the condom packet. He had to take his fingers out of Stiles to do it—his! fingers! were! in! you!, Stiles' brain takes a moment to shout—but then something is brushing up against Stiles' ass and his brain pretty much whites out on the whole verbal language thing. 

Stiles tenses up as Chris slides in—he can't really help it—but Chris takes his time, pats Stiles' sides soothingly. Chris leans forward, covering Stiles, kisses his spine, the back of his neck. It's a lot more tender than handcuffed-to-the-table sex really needs to be, but Stiles is pathetically grateful until he gets used to the feeling of Chris in him, and then he's just impatient. He discovers he can talk again, and starts to, running his mouth until Chris pulls away and starts fucking him in earnest.

Stiles is pretty sure he eventually hits a point where he doesn't make sense, but he doesn't really care, and Chris isn't trying to shut him up anymore, or if he is he's doing it by pounding into Stiles and it really isn't the disincentive he thinks it is. Eventually, though, Chris gets a hand underneath Stiles and starts jerking him off, and not long after that Stiles comes, and that does shut him up, blasting through him until he goes limp. 

Lying there on the table, fucked out, feeling Chris still moving in him, gently wringing the last of his orgasm out of him, Stiles catches sight of the gun he had his mouth on. The spit has dried, it looks just like any one of Chris' guns, but Stiles' dick still twitches at the sight.

*

Chris doesn't let Stiles go home after. First he makes Stiles shower, through the simple expedient of telling Stiles to have one while looking kind of tired and sad, and then when Stiles comes out of the shower barefoot and barechested, toweling his hair dry, he makes Stiles eat eggs on toast that he's just made. Stiles goes along with it—he can pretty much always eat—and when he's done Chris is sitting at the table, cleaning the gun. 

"Fuck," he says, and Chris looks at him. His eyes catch on Stiles' bare chest, but then he looks away; Stiles can almost see what he's thinking. 

"I have to clean it all over again," Chris says, obviously trying for humour. 

"Right," agrees Stiles. "Safety first," and Chris crooks a grin at him, then subsides. "Hey," Stiles says, on impulse. "I'll tell Scott you're fine, OK, but you should come along next time we try to kill something, or whatever."

Chris glances up at him. "Okay," he says, slowly. 

"No problem," Stiles says. He coughs. "Also, um, that was fun. I had fun. You know."

"I could tell," Chris said. 

"Right!" Stiles says. "So, you know. You shouldn't feel guilty, or whatever."

"About having sex with a kid my daughter's age? Sure," says Chris. "That's totally fine."

"Yup," says Stiles, deadpan, and Chris just stares at him, then looks away, shaking his head. But Stiles can see a little smile, and mentally fistpumps. "See ya, then," he says, and gets while the going is good. 

*

Two weeks later Chris comes out and helps them kill a thing. Stiles is too busy trying not to die to get really distracted watching him with his shotgun, but after everything is safely dead and the werewolves and banshees he calls friends have all fucked off he pins Chris up against his car and gets on his knees. 

"Is that a gun in your pocket," he starts, brushing his mouth over the front of Chris' jeans.

Chris looks pained. "Please don't finish that," he says, but his hands are already in Stiles' hair, and Stiles is pretty sure he knows how this is going to end.


End file.
